


The Road and the End

by pifflapodus_scriptor



Category: Sym-Bionic Titan
Genre: Action, Drama, F/M, General, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-29
Updated: 2014-03-24
Packaged: 2017-10-30 07:12:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/329141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pifflapodus_scriptor/pseuds/pifflapodus_scriptor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Welp, I decided to write season 2 because ff.net failed me. So here it is. Hope y'all enjoy it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. chp. 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Straight to business - disclaimer: I do not own Sym-Bionic Titan, but I wish I owned Cartoon Network.  
>  Since I couldn’t find what I wanted, I wrote it instead. 

Episode 21.

The sun had set as they flew across the face of the earth to Sherman, Illinois. They passed over highways and suburbs and cities freckled with light, like glowing, brilliant dust flung over the great curving expanse of navy-blue earth. Everything fell away behind them, soundlessly, much too slow to keep up with the sheer joy of reunion. Titan soared, engines virtually singing as they painted their exuberance on the night sky with jet trails.

Lance was thrilled. He could not stop smiling. Octus was back. And Titan was back. No more motels, no more trains, no more obscure electrical engineering textbooks or hitchhiking or useless Earth tech or crazy plans to sneak into military power plants because Octus was alive, they were going home, and they would be safe again. 

He could feel Ilana’s presence besides him, silent and strong. In Titan, she was a dream-like warmth, a feeling that was hard to remember clearly after waking up; Titan did funny things to his senses and this was one of them. Every emotion from Ilana and Octus could be felt like a drop of cold water in a hot shower, a brief touch of sensitivity that was soon lost in the flow of thought. 

For some reason, Ilana was running cold. There was something wrong with her happiness. He was sensing something off, like a strange flavor in a glass of water; something had been added, a bitter, dry taste. Even though she was talking to Octus with a voice that practically filled Titan’s piloting chamber with bubbles and rainbows, something was definitely wrong.

“…and we ended up in the Texas, no one would tell me how many there were and people gave me funny looks when I asked. Do you know what a Texa is? Because no one would tell me! And that’s when some thief tried to steal the backpack with you in it and Lance broke his arm… “

“Only after he tried pulling a knife on me,” Lance cut in.

“Right. But then we had to leave the Texas and we took the train to Mexico, but the new one. And they were nicer there.“

“Sounds like you guys had quite the adventures without me,” said Octus, in his calm, paternally robotic monotone. Ilana’s happiness radiated off her in waves, washing over Lance as he listened to them talk. But there was still something –

“Oh, Octus. I can’t tell you how happy I am that you’re back,” she said. 

“I, uh – um. Yeah, me too,” added Lance, “and – whoa!”

Their feelings had apparently overwhelmed the Titan and it had barrel-rolled in excitement, leaving them dizzy and breathless.

“We are almost home,” said Octus, as Titan cast a silhouette of gold and bluish light over a familiar Sherman suburb.

////////////////

The street was quiet and the house was dark. They padded across the lawn to the front door, shoes making schff noises as they brushed the grass. Octus had disguised himself as Dad, in case there were any neighbors skulking around after one in the morning, and chances were actually pretty good that Barb would pop out of the grass with a plate of cookies and a manic smile to the tune of a shrill “Yoo-hoo~!” Lance and Octus had been quiet as they walked through the streets to their house, but Ilana resolutely so; it was almost like that time in the swamp. What was it?

“Hold on, Ilana,” whispered Lance, as she reached to open the front door, “let Octus check the house first. There could be something waiting for us.”

Ilana rolled her eyes and pulled a face but waited as Octus beeped and whirred, scanning the house for danger.

“The house is secure… welcome home, you two,” he said, and Ilana burst through the door with a squeal of joy.

“We’re home!” she chirped, dropping her bag and pirouetting onto the landing. 

“Hooray,” intoned Lance, watching her. 

“I am going to re-establish our security systems and update my programming… and I must text Kimmy soon or she will be upset,” said Octus sheepishly, trudging into the living room. The house looked abandoned; the furniture was covered in dust, the plants were dead, and the remnants of Lance’s and Ilana’s last breakfast there three weeks ago were caked to their plates in the kitchen. 

“Of course, Octus! Go! I’m starving, I wonder if anything’s expired,” said Ilana, and she danced into the kitchen, smiling broadly. But her eyes were serious. Her lightness was weighed down, substantially, by whatever cold current Lance had felt earlier; and as Octus went upstairs to fiddle with tech, Lance flumped onto the couch.

Thirty minutes later, Ilana was dozing in the armchair, head drooping to her chest, drooling slightly. She had a bag of marshmallows in one hand and a slightly stale granola bar in the other. Brightly colored wrappers lay scattered around her like the fallen battle flags of an army overpowered by her ruthless hunger.

Lance’s enthusiasm for food had stopped at marshmallows. He was watching her sleep, chin on his fist. Three weeks together. Three weeks, living virtually inseparable, of shared train compartments and stolen slept-on shoulders in cross-country busses. Every night she had been within reach, breathing, warm; almost endlessly optimistic; without her and her eternal sunniness, he would’ve just given up. No, it would’ve just been a lot harder. But on coming home, to Sherman, back to her bed, with Octus alive and well again, she was…

…

Ask him to strip a Galalunan arm cannon in twelve seconds? Sure. The best way to take out a Targun-3 swamp wasp? He could do it. Disarm a man twice his size? Laughably easy. Figuring out how his best friend felt? Lance sighed.

He stood up and carefully detached the marshmallows and the half-eaten granola bars from her hands. Then he lifted her from the armchair, gingerly; she murmured and opened her eyes blearily.

“I’m taking you to bed, it’s almost 2 in the morning,” he said, and in response she swung an arm around his neck and closed her eyes again. He walked up the stairs to her room, feeling acutely aware of the way Ilana was pressed against him, her body curving slightly around his chest, her head lolling onto his shoulder, her feet bouncing with each step upwards. She was, he thought, much stronger than she looked.

Lance carefully deposited Ilana on top of her salmon-pink comforter, and aimlessly rearranged a few pillows. She rolled over, curling up on the bed, hand under her cheek. The snow-globe from the mall was on her nightstand, glinting in the light streaming in from the hallway, and Lance gave it a tentative shake. The flakes shimmered as they drifted around the castle, and he remembered how Ilana had deflated, wilted, like a dying sunflower, when she held that snow globe in the mall. 

“Ilana?” he whispered.

“Lnnce…?” she mumbled.

“You’ll go home someday. Real home, to Galaluna, so don’t worry,” he said, turning towards the door, but he felt a slight movement and stopped.

“Will you come too?” Ilana slurred, her voice squashed and smeared by the pillows. She was smiling; her fingers and thumb closed on his hand, soft and warm.

“I, uh…” 

Several seconds passed. Down the hall, Octus registered a swift rise in Lance’s heartbeat.

“… yeah,” he said, and she dropped his hand, dangling her arm over the edge of the bed.

Really, however, home was neither Galaluna nor Sherman. Home was wherever he felt loved… and he hadn’t found one in a long, long time. But now, standing in a darkened room, tired, dirty, and hungry, Lance found it. Home was the freckled girl he had carried up the stairs, a homesick young woman possessed by confidence and love. She would go back, to her real home, away from this stupid, barbaric planet; and when she did, he would follow her, because she was home.

And, finally, satisfied with his answer, content at last, Lance slumped to the floor, leaned against her bed, and slept.


	2. chp. 22.5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kimmy reunites with Newton and it's pretty fluffy... for now. I like it dramatic. So chapter 3 is going to be pretty dramatic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Constructive criticism is always welcome.

\- Episode 21.5 -  
Ilana woke up and briefly forgot where she was – for a second, everything that had happened yesterday had seemed dreamlike, hazy, out-of-reach. And then her thoughts resolved and she remembered that she was back in Sherman, with Lance and Octus, and a sense of normalcy would soon return to the days and weeks of suburban life.

She was lying on top of the bed, still in yesterday’s clothing; a pink and yellow shirt and blue shorts. Ilana rolled over onto her back, slowly, leaving behind warm patches of bed. The comforter was tantalizing cool on her bare skin and the room was full of pale light and colors. 

Something had come to her, last night, while she was more asleep than awake… a hand? A hand offering words to her, small token sentiments, like the flowers children would offer her during parades on Galaluna… you’ll go home someday… real home. Ilana frowned at the ceiling, plucking thoughtfully at her collar. She pushed them down, seeds buried deep in the loam of her mind and carefully covered. There was a tantalizing smell of waffles coming through the door, wafting in to the crackling, sizzling tune of Octus cooking bacon and eggs.

Ilana sat up and stretched. The clock on the wall read 10:23. Brunch, then. A lovely reunion brunch with Octus and Lance. It sounded delightful… maybe she could hold them off until she cut flowers for the table. She made a mental note that she would have to do something really special for Octus soon… his favorite ice sticks, maybe? A book on modern art? Mittens to match his fuzzy slippers? She smiled and crinkled her nose at the idea.

“Oh, you’re awake,” said Lance, pausing in the door, freshly showered and toweling his wet hair.

“Good morning,” she said brightly, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. “Are you going down to breakfast?”

Lance frowned, mid-towel.

“Don’t get excited… we have a guest,” he muttered, rolling his eyes with displeasure; “Kimmy’s here to see Newton.”

Of course she was. Ilana rubbed her nose thoughtfully. How was Newton going to explain his… death, you could call it... to Kimmy? She wasn’t sure there had ever been a plot like this on High School Heights - where someone broke up with their lover, who then mysteriously disappeared, and was actually a depowered robot. Actually, that seemed tame for High School Heights. The three of them would have to come up with a plausible story.

“So… can I get still food? Or is the kitchen off-limits to super un-cool people like me?”

“No. But, oh my gawd, you’re, like, toootally gonna cut in on their alone time,” said Lance sarcastically, and he made a face. Ilana giggled.

“You know, Lance,” she said smugly, drawing herself up with mock regal imperiousness, “as a princess it’s my duty to be diplomatic, and as my bodyguard and loyal subject you should be following my exa- hey!”

Lance threw the towel at her face, making contact with a fluffy thlump.

“Nope,” he said.

Jerk. 

///////////////////////

So the attitude in the kitchen was a bit different than what Ilana thought it would be. Kimmy was sitting perched on the island’s marble countertop, legs crossed and hands clasped around her knee. She leaned into her pose, looking like some luxurious, exotic, fire-feathered bird, completely silent. Newton had his apron on and was standing at the stove with his back turned to Kimmy, measuring milk with robotic precision into a steaming pan of scrambled eggs. Ilana poked her head hesitantly into the kitchen, feeling as though she had missed a musical cue somewhere in some absurd domestic dance number.

“…Morning, Newton… Kimmy,” she said slowly, trying to ignore the conspicuous plate of waffles on the kitchen counter.

“Good morning, Ilana!” said Newton with exuberance, turning around, crossing the kitchen in three steps and lifting Ilana off the ground in an enormous bear hug. Kimmy was staring pointedly at the ceiling.

“Ooof! Any – chance – of – breakfast – aghyoucanputmedownnow,” gasped Ilana, and Newton thrust a plate of food into her hands.

“Homemade waffles with strawberries, blueberries, and whipped cream. I made the whipped cream myself. It wasn’t difficult once I figured out the correct rotation speed for beating the eggs. Your favorite,” he said, and for a few seconds Ilana was speechless. She took the waffles, topped with delicately and precisely beaten spirals of whipped cream, feeling completely overwhelmed by Newton’s expectant, happy smile.

“You’re amazing!” 

She stood on tip-toe and gave him a one-armed hug around the neck. 

“Kimmy was just telling me what we missed in school,” said Newton, returning to the stove and prodding the eggs with his spatula; Kimmy rolled her eyes.

“No, actually, Newton was just about to tell me where you guys have been for the past three weeks,” she said fiercely.

Ilana plucked a strawberry from the cloud of whipped cream and popped it into her mouth.

“Oh, uh, we were in…” she started; in where? 

“Let me guess. You all had to go to the bathroom,” Kimmy growled at the back of Newton’s head; uncrossing her legs and whipping her head around. 

“No, honeymuffin, and if you would just listen, Ilana was just about to tell you,” said Newton in a measured tone.

“Don’t ‘honeymuffin’ me. Or ‘sugarbear’ me. Not until you explain why you all vanished into thin air.”

Ilana had never seen Kimmy like this; her eyes glowing, her face lit with a sharp, determined look, her tone low and tranquilly furious. She didn’t envy Newton’s position. She also didn’t really appreciate him foisting the ‘explanation’ onto her, quite obviously, too; but he did make her waffles, which were crunchy and sweet and perfectly airy on the inside – she was definitely being bribed. 

Just then, Lance walked into the kitchen, and Ilana mentally started flipping through the pages of her history textbook, desperately trying to think of an Earth place that would convince Kimmy they were actually from this planet and Newton hadn’t been stabbed by an energy-eating alien.

“Hey Newton, is the bacon ready?” he said, ignoring Kimmy and walking straight to the stove, where he gingerly picked out a clump of scrambled eggs with two fingers. 

“Hi, Lance,” said Kimmy, and he froze, egg dangling an inch over his mouth. And then he looked at Ilana, waiting for her to detach him from the spot where Kimmy’s glare had nailed him down. Fine. Time to break out the crowbar of diplomacy.

“Well, we… had to go abroad,” she said, and Kimmy frowned. Lance nervously consumed the egg and chewed hastily.

“Where? And why?”

“We were in… “ 

And all three Lunises chimed in at once - 

“Indonesia,” said Newton. 

“Argentina,” said Lance.

“California,” said Ilana, and scowled at them.

“ARGH!” said Kimmy to the ceiling, tossing her head back, her voice finally rising above conversational level; “you guys are so impossible! Indonesia, Argentina, and California? Newton,” she pleaded, “do you trust me at all? Do you have, like, any respect for me?”

Newton sighed “Of course I do, babycakes, but – “

“Don’t call me that! Just be straight with me!”

Kimmy’s voice had begun to crack. Her shoulders were drawn up and her hands, gripping the side of the countertop, were white and stiff. Ilana did not want that crack to widen. Ilana was trying to eat her breakfast in peace because she hadn’t had a decent home-cooked breakfast in a long time and a frantic, angry Kimmy was impeding her enjoyment of said breakfast, and she wanted Newton to be happy because he had made her waffles and he was her family on this barbaric planet full of crazy redheads and weird people.

“Okay, look, Kimmy,” she said, forcing her way into the silence, “I don’t want to lie. We had a family crisis. A really bad, terrible family crisis. We didn’t go abroad, we just had to leave town for a while to get it sorted out. You have to understand, we want to be private about this. I’m not going to tell you. Lance won’t, either. If Newton wants to tell you the truth –” she fixed Newton with narrowed eyes, and he looked slightly sheepish in the way only a very atypical robot could – “he can.”

Kimmy opened her mouth to speak but Ilana cut her off with a raised hand. 

“Yes, this does have to do with his ‘bathroom breaks’. No, we can’t tell you why. And that’s all I have to say,” she finished, and realized that her fists had been clenched the whole time. Lance was leaning against the counter, one hand covering his mouth, inspecting her suspiciously. She unclenched them and met his gaze.

Kimmy slid off the countertop and stood in front of Ilana, towering over her, eyes wide and calm.

“Ilana,” she said, carefully taking Ilana’s hands; “thank you. For at least being honest that you can’t tell me.” 

She gave a small smile and when Ilana smiled back, she grew radiant and for the second time in a day Ilana was pulled into an awkward, wrap-around hug. 

“Awww, I’ve missed you, you crazy weirdo,” said Kimmy, and released her. Ilana, again for the second time, was momentarily speechless. Lance shrugged in an ‘I don’t know what the fuck just happened’ kind of way and, seeing that the threat had been defused, initiated his offensive against the refrigerator.

“Kimmy,” said Newton, “I really like you. A lot. You make me happy in a very special way that… I’ve never felt before. Ever. There are some things I can’t tell you. We all have those things. But it doesn’t matter what those are, because I would never do anything to hurt you.” 

Kimmy scrunched her mouth into a thoughtful moue, tension still on her like a color.

“Kimmy, please trust me that I trust you,” he said, hopefully; Ilana saw Lance smirk with amusement as he chugged from a carton of milk. He had probably done this kind of thing before, hadn’t he? Going on dates, courting girls, promising them things?

“Oh, Newton, you’ll always be my nerd,” she breathed, as the tension washed off her, and she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him gleefully on the cheek.

“And you’ll always be my honeyboo,” he said.

Lance choked on the milk, spluttering and coughing frantically. Kimmy gave him a funny look, still dangling from Newton’s neck. 

“C’mon, Lance, let’s go eat on the patio, give them some alone time,” said Ilana, noting sadly that her waffles had gone slightly cold, and that the whipped cream had deflated; it couldn’t be helped. 

“Yeah, okay,” said Lance hurriedly, wiping milk from his face, and he took the pans of eggs and bacon from the stove and followed her through the kitchen’s back door to their little patio.

“Thank god that’s over,” he muttered, and Ilana smacked him playfully on the head. Inside Kimmy had started jokingly asking Newton what their super-mysterious secret was. CIA agents? No. Superheroes? Uh-uh. On-the-run from the feds? Not even close…

“It was sweet. Besides, if Kimmy’s happy, Newton’s happy, and that’s good enough for me.”

As they settled down onto the patio chairs, Lance dual-wielding frying pans, Ilana picking out the berries to save for last, the day still, clear, and bright; Ilana heard one last question from Kimmy, one for which Ilana would have to give her credit for being much more astute and shrewd than she looked.

“Does it… have anything to with that Titan? Thing? Robot?”

“Now you’re just being silly,” said Newton flawlessly, feeding her a strawberry. 

////////////////

Several hundreds of millions of light-years away, a dangerous man strode across the charred, pitted landscape of a dangerous planet. Such was the fortuity of his circumstances that with each black-booted step, the planet quaked and trembled in fear of him, of his gloved fist, of his Eye. And such was the power given to him that he merely had to look upon even the most mindlessly cruel and atavistic specimen of scales and claws, and it would step back to make way for his passage.

Modula swept into the control room, followed by an abrupt, tight-lipped silence. None of the Mutradd engineers or scientists dared to speak. They spoke as little as possible, and averted their gaze from the great Eye on his head; the Eye, the enchanting, seductive green Eye, that trapped you in its sight like a squirming insect in a web. 

Ah, the Eye… the eye…[ THE EYE SCREAMED, THE EYE SCREAMED FOR BLOOD AND SHATTERED BONES ]

Several Mutradd guards were attempting to load an enormous, towering Apessian scorpion onto the launch pad. It shrieked viciously and swung its head around, seeking the tips of their electric pikes. Such a glorious, magnificent creature… 

[ IT WOULD KILL! IT WOULD KILL AND CUT THEM OPEN AND SPILL THEIR ENTRAILS ]

The Mutradd engineers in the control room watched the commanding officer bow his head towards Modula’s feet. Modula seemed apathetic; almost unimpressed, despite the fact that the scorpion had sunk its barbed tail several inches deep into a guard, who then started to convulse uncontrollably as yellow froth bubbled out of his mouth. 

[ AND THEIR EYES WILL ROLL INTO THEIR HEADS AND THEY WILL STRUGGLE CRUSHED AND BROKEN FOR A PEACE THAT WILL BE HELD FROM THEM ]

“Surely, sire, this creature meets your expectations?” asked the officer, trembling slightly, as the scorpion tore the guard’s head from his body and ripped the carcass open with its shining red claws. 

[ AND THE CHILD’S BLOOD WILL FLOW LIKE THE OCEANS ]

Modula stroked his beard, watching the scorpion devour the hapless guard. It did meet expectations. Its blood-thirst was admirable; its viciousness unlike any other creature sent before. And yet, they had all failed, all thrown across space to die at the hands of a juvenile, untrained whelp and a delinquent, pathetic excuse for a soldier. Maybe a subtler approach was needed [ NO! SET EVERY NERVE OF THEIR BODIES ON FIRE AND MAKE THEM SCREAM UNTIL THEIR THROATS BLEED ]

“Sire? Sire…?” asked the officer, tentatively; a drop of sweat rolled down his jawline and he resisted the temptation to wipe it off. He kept his hands firmly clasped, behind his back, staying calm, staying servile, staying…

The scorpion had been successfully coaxed onto the launch pad. But the megabeasts had been insufficient. There must be a smarter way… a stronger way, more sophisticated than brute force and power. Megabeasts were strong, but Galalunans were clever.

[ CRACK THEIR SKULLS ]

[ SMASH THEM ALL ]

“Hold the launch,” said Modula, and the Mutradd officer blinked in surprise. 

“Sire, is something wrong?” 

[ RIP THEIR SPINES FROM 

The Eye opened and began to glow, a relentless, brilliant green.

“Yes, I dare say there is,” drawled Modula, and the officer burst into ash where he stood, incinerated by a jet of light. 

…. ] 

Modula swept his gaze across the control room. No one reacted to the death of their officer. No one moved or spoke. 

“You,” he thundered, pointing with a gloved hand to a gilled Mutradd officer; “send me three of the Galalunan soldiers at once and have a rocket prepared. Leave the creature on the launch pad.”

“Of course, sire,” said the officer immediately, and she scuttled out of the room. Modula swiftly claimed her chair and crossed his legs, watching the scorpion shiver restlessly on the launch pad.

[ Calm yourself, my pet… there shall be more prey soon enough… patience. ]

The Eye was calm. It was at peace. It had been satiated. The voice curled up like a wild animal, nestled in the back of Modula’s mind, always watching, always waiting. Its thirst for violence was slaked, for now.


	3. The Chapter in Which Lance is a Jerk

-Episode 22-

Winter had descended on Sherman with a cold-hearted fury, darkening the city with rolling oceans of grey clouds. Whatever sunlight broke through the clouds fell weakly to the slick icy streets, and strong winds from the North blew it away. 

But despite how the chill had soaked the tiled floors and black chemistry countertops of the AP sciences classroom, Lance was feeling unseasonably warm. His lab partner was skating through her chemistry nomenclature worksheet, but he was wondering idly if he could see his reflection in her hair. It was so shiny. It shone like oil in sunlight, or like the obsidian cliffs on the third moon, which were so shiny that Galalunan fighter pilots could see their reflections from the cockpits of their velociters as they flew over. He was feeling warm and he was feeling the same round swoop at the bottom of his chest as he did when he flew velociters in low gravity. Her hair was hanging low and hiding her face, but he could see her clearly, in his mind, her eyes full of combative fire and her form totally, totally wrong.

“Mr. Lunis, this isn’t astronomy class, stop spacing out and do your work,” said Mrs. Rudish loudly from the front of the classroom. Lance jumped and Kristen the Goth Girl, his lab partner, chortled at her paper. 

“Someone’s getting extra homework tonight,” she said in a low voice, eying his entirely blank worksheet.

“This shit is easy,” he whispered back, and to prove it, he filled in numbers one though eight, in pen. 

“Impressive,” said Kristen, cocking an eyebrow, “but that one’s wrong. And… I’m done.”

She jumped off her stool with her worksheet and marched to the front of the classroom as Lance frowned and scribbled out the offending nomenclature. Her hair swung back and forth as she walked, sleek waves of reflective light rolling off as she moved. There was almost a purple-ish tinge to it… if he ran his hands through it, would the shine spill onto them? Lance chewed his bottom lip thoughtfully and realized that he had crossed out a right answer instead of the wrong one. But it didn’t bother him that much.

Kristen returned to the lab table and pulled a slim black-sheened device from her bag, unwrapping the white wires around it as she did so. She stuck the wires in her ears and looked at Lance, slightly bemused.

“What?” she asked.

“What’s that?” he said, tilting his head towards the device in her hands. 

She gave him a weird look.

“It’s an iPod… You know, the thing that everyone and their goldfish has? Did you live in a cave before you moved here?”

“No… I’ve just never seen one… like that,” Lance said defensively. Earth tech was a little bit different from Galalunan tech, as he learned when he had asked Ian from Disenfranchised about his comm device. Ian had told him that calling a cellphone a ‘comm device’ was way retro in a vintage 60’s sci-fi kind of way, but it was a little too ironic. 

“It’s a fourth-gen nano, it’s not exactly new… Take it, you Luddite, it has music on it,” and Kristen yanked the ear buds out and pressed the iPod into his hand. Her fingertips were, for a fleeting instant, soft and cold on his skin, and he felt a subtle chill thrill up his spine and stall his breath. He put the ear buds in and held the iPod in both hands, studying it carefully. It had a round scrolling control. A power switch on top. A connective port at the bottom. Simple but beautiful, almost Galalunan in its design. He ran his thumb over the scrolling control and pressed the center.

“I hope you like the White Stripes, because that’s what you got,” Kristen said, in her smoky voice, and Lance, looking into her dark, beach-glass eyes; found that he liked them very much.

////////

The lunch bell had rung and Lance and Newton were crossing the parking lot, wrapped in their scarves and coats, their breath wafting away into the cold, overcast day. Their plan was a quick run to the drive-through for something Newton called ‘a nutritious wrap even better than ice sticks,’ but the Earthlings merely called a steak burrito.

“Hey, Newton, can I have some money?” 

“Sure, Lance, how much do you need?”

“Um… how much is an iPod? It’s this music thingy,” Lance said, shoving his hands into his pea-coat pockets and feeling mildly envious of Newton’s mittens... but he would die before he wore earmuffs. Newton went silent for a few brief seconds, his eyes glazing over, and his walk getting slightly stiffer… Lance looked up at him, teeth chattering furiously. 

“An iPod Classic is two hundred and fifty dollars,” Newton said, returning from his cyber-jaunt, “and we can get them and other related electronic musica – hey, what are they doing by our car?”

Lance swung around towards their parking spot. He and Newton had firmly sided against the minivan today because their car needed love. And they had parked it carefully and precisely in a spot at the far end of the parking lot, away from any reckless drivers who dared to threaten it with the possibility of a scratch or a dent. But there were five people gathered around the car, leaning against it, waiting ominously; four guys, one smoking a cigarette, and a stunningly beautiful Asian girl with long, flowing hair and bright red lips. She was Chan’s girlfriend, Cat. Lance scowled and stormed up to Cat, who was smiling in a vaguely malicious way as she ran a gloved finger over the hood ornament. 

“What are you doing with my car?” Lance growled.

Cat straightened up and took a few steps back, still smiling at him. She kicked a car tire experimentally with the toe of her boot and turned to the shaggy-haired guy standing by the driver’s window. He was casually swinging a crowbar back and forth from his fist.

“It really is a nice car, isn’t it?” she said to him.

The guy grinned evilly and slammed the crowbar into the car door, denting it deeply.

“Maybe not that nice of a car…” Cat sneered, and Lance took a step forward but Newton grabbed his shoulder - 

“Get away from my car!” he yelled, and the guy with the crowbar swung it again. The car door crumpled inward several inches with a hollow crunch.

“Let me go,” said Lance. Newton frowned and didn’t let go.

“We can fix it later, Lance, it doesn’t matter,” said Newton, and Lance slapped his hand away.

Cat sneered at them. 

“Looks like Soccer Mom doesn’t want you getting into fights. Lucky for you, Chan got seven years, but he wanted us to say hey… and fuck you,” she snarled. The shaggy-haired guy lifted the crowbar and, with a violent thrust, shattered the window. Lance broke his nose with a palm strike before the glass even hit the ground.

////////

Ilana’s expression when she swept into the front office was a look Lance had seen before all too many times, and never in a good way. She barely glanced at him as she successfully convinced the vice principal not to expel him from school, looking like a military commander in her snowy white trench coat and furry black ushanka. The vice principal, a rather intimidating woman herself, appeared completely bowled over. And when Ilana was done, she turned to him, eyes dark and narrow. 

“Get up, Lance.”

He glared at her, pulled his knit cap down past his ears, and peeled himself off the office couch where he had been slouched for the past two hours. He shrugged his pea coat on and winced as it brushed against his bruised ribcage, where one of the White Dragon kids had gotten lucky with the crowbar. Ilana rolled her eyes, apparently refusing to be sympathetic. Fine, then. 

The vice principal held the door open for them as Ilana wheeled out of the office and took off. Her snow boots squeaked on the linoleum, and with each step she put more distance between herself and Lance. She was taking wide strides, her shoulders squared, her form somehow denser than usual. Lance sighed and trotted forward, trying to get in front of her.

“It’s not my fault,” he said, walking backwards to both keep up with her and face her. She wasn’t meeting his gaze.

“Really,” he tried again, and her eyes flicked towards him, bright and sharp with rage.

“Ila – “

“Don’t,” she snapped, without breaking her pace. Lance snorted and regretted it as pain shot through his chest.

“Can I at least explain?!”

“No. I know what happened.” 

Lance stopped dead, halting her march down the hallway. She glowered at him. The hallway was filled with gray light and everyone had gone home already. They were probably the only students who hadn’t gone home yet, and each sound they made bounced off the lockers and walls and the gaping silence. She tried to go left around him and he flung out his arm; she darted right and he held out his right arm as well.

“You can’t be mad at me, they were trashing my car,” he said plaintively, squaring himself with her hardened face.

“That’s not the point,” Ilana said, ducking around his outstretched right hand; he tried to grab her sleeve and she shrugged him off, hard.

“So, what? You don’t want me to defend what’s mine?”

“No, Lance, that’s not the point either!” she yelled, wheeling around, her voice rising to a shout. The high notes spilled down the empty hallway.

“Then what?” 

Ilana pursed her lips and gave him a stony look. She was being so difficult. She didn’t understand. She never understood. Lance folded his arms, ignoring the bruise. 

“I expected better from you,” she said, with a steely edge in her words, and Lance exhaled forcefully. He had been cut by this anger-honed disappointment before. Ilana was her father’s daughter. What she lacked in royal gravitas, she recovered through sheer fiery conviction. But it was the same frustration, the same regret, the same rage and coldness. And it was so unfair. Something in him flared up, something worse than in the parking lot, something old and resentful.

“You let a bunch of punks get to you, and then you sent two of them to the emergency room. Really, Lance? Really? How many times have I – ”

“They were trashing my car,” he cut in again, and she brushed away his words with a brusque wave of her arm.

“So call the police! Newton didn’t break anybody’s nose, he didn’t break any collarbones or kick teeth out, and he cares about the damn car just as much as you do! You thought with your fists instead of your brain, as usual, and you – went – overboard, “ she said, jabbing her finger through the space between them, “and you hurt people. Unnecessarily. For something stupid.”

Ilana snorted scornfully and crossed her arms, shaking her head as she glared down the empty hallway. Lance’s face felt hot and he jerked away from her, looking around to find... something, anything, to focus on for three seconds. The numbers 143 on the locker in front of him gleamed weakly in the gray light. Outside, the wind picked up briefly and they could hear it howling down the bricked alleyway, empty and loud. Ilana sighed heavily.

“You can’t – Lance, grow up already. You can’t just leave a trail of destruction and violence wherever you go,” she started, and he suddenly felt whatever had flared up burn even stronger and deeper than before. When did she claim the right to tell him anything about causing damage? When did she become his babysitter, scolding him like he was back in the academy, for beating the righteous shit out of some idiot? Her naiveté was astounding, her lack of experience, her coddled, hand-held existence –

“Oh, yeah? Well, there are a lot of people dead here because of you,” he shot back.

The words dropped between them like a stone. Ilana took an instinctive step backwards, startled, her face frozen with – what? Surprise? Alarm? Guilt? Somewhere beyond them, far away, outside the rapidly solidified seconds, a door slammed open against a wall. Her lips twitched, her eyes round and shining –  
She slapped him across the face.

The slap rang through the empty halls of Sherman High. Ilana turned on her heel and followed the sound down the hallway and out the double doors into the icy afternoon. And then it got quiet as Lance watched her retreating figure get smaller and farther away and finally vanish as the doors slammed shut, and he smacked his hands to his face in frustration and yanked his knit cap off and ran a hand through his hair in helpless rage, wrung the knit cap between his clenched fists and took a few aimless steps and finally a short, atavistic syllable of anger came out of him and he hit locker 143 with his fist and then with his forehead and he stayed there, head against the locker, punching it so that the lock rattled with each hit but not so hard that there was any damage. 

“Wow,” said a cool voice behind him, “I haven’t seen fireworks like that since the Fourth of July.”

Lance didn’t know what was so special about the Fourth of July, but he recognized Kristen’s voice. He stopped hitting the locker and shot her a look. She was the one who had just opened the door; the gym was on the other side.

“Do I even want to know?” Kristen asked, her face glistening with sweat from her workout. He almost shrugged, but unable to sustain any sincere attitude of nonchalance, deflated entirely and slid down the locker to the floor.

Kristen walked over and stood over him, one arm crossed to the other; she tilted her head and studied him carefully as he sat against the locker, face feeling tight with a sort of wide-eyed, despondent ire.

She nudged his foot with hers.

“Come over and I’ll kick your ass on Call of Duty,” she said, and he looked at her and her slick, shiny hair and shrewd dark eyes. He didn’t know what Call of Duty was, but it sounded dumb and fun. She nudged his foot again, slowly, a little hesitantly this time, and his mind settled.

“Yeah, okay,” said Lance, and she held out her hands and pulled him to his feet.


	4. The Chapter in Which Muculox Corpses are Gross and Giant Space Scorpions are Also Gross

Ilana had always liked Illinois better from the ground. Everything was closer, more intimate, more recognizable and tangible. Her house was different from the other houses, and her street was wider and had more trees than the other streets, and the sidewalks and parks were friendlier when she could touch them with her feet and smell the grass and mud and watch squirrels dive for food in the trash cans. When she walked through Sherman, every door had someone behind it, a life of comings and goings; every person she passed had a face, and a name somewhere, and a place to go back to.

But she was several thousand feet over the ground, soaring over the city in her Corus armor with arms outstretched, and Sherman looked like an angular grey stain spilled across the snowed-over landscape. Ilana wanted to pick at it and scratch it off, blot it from the fabric, make it all disappear and the land would be fresh and white again. The sky was a lonely place to be. She wasn’t sure where she was going, so she flew along the coast of the lake, hearing little but the soft whir of the armor, and chose south.

“Ilana? Why did you turn on your armor? Did something happen? I waited for you two in the parking lot for quite some time…”

Octus’ voice came through the comm warm and clear as Ilana left Sherman and flew giant curving zigzags over the highway, gracefully banking each turn. 

“Sorry, Octus. I just need some alone time. I’ll be fine, don’t worry,” she said, diving low and making a wide swoop around a tall copse of snow-covered trees.

“Oh. Is Lance with you?”

“No, I don’t know where he is, “ Ilana said, flying towards a small partially frozen lake. She dropped a hand onto the surface of the water, skimming the lake and sending up two white wings of icy water. Octus didn’t respond and Ilana soared upwards again; up, up over the treetops, hundreds of yards over the surface of the Earth, and climbing steadily. He was probably calling Lance. She didn’t particularly care where he’d gone. 

Fifteen minutes later, Octus radioed in again. “I believe there’s a proper Earth term for how Lance is behaving,” he said, and she detected a small hint of self-satisfaction at his mastery of Earth slang.

“Let’s hear it.”

“He’s being what they call a ‘a total dick.‘”

Ilana giggled in spite of herself.

“Also, I have obtained a bag of marshmallows for you… and Kimmy said she’s totally down for girl-talk if you want. I don’t know how it’s different from normal talk, but I think it has something to do with chocolate,” said Octus scientifically.

“Tell her thanks. I’ll be home for dinner.” And with that, Ilana rose to just under the cloud cover and soared southward. 

An hour later and she hadn’t been interrupted again. There were cars down below, darting along the highway like ants, colorless and undead, and the snow cover was slowly thinning and disappearing. The distance was refreshing in a strange, cold way. 

Ilana dropped below the canopy of a blackened winter forest, tracing a creek through the woods, watching the dulled golden reflection of her Corus armor on the water. She was so far south that the snow was gone, and the area seemed familiar; the creek broke off into larger ponds and streambeds, and there were dark, damp groves tucked in the banks and between the trees. It was the swamp where the Muculox had turned her into that thing so many months ago. If she was right, and if G3 hadn’t taken it, the tadpole ship would still be there, nose in the dirt.

The trees parted and Ilana felt a grim satisfaction. The ship was there, poking out of the earth like a giant cracked bubble. The hole where Lance had impaled the Muculox through the shield was full of mud, and the Spear construct had vanished. She landed on the ground with a soft thump and peered into the ship, tentatively, not knowing why her curiosity was getting the better of her, nor why she had run to the place where that gross thing had turned her into something else. 

Ilana almost retched inside the Corus armor and stumbled away from the ship, gagging uncontrollably. The Muculox was there, all right, leering at her through its semi-rotted and dried-out face, its transparent membrane shriveled to its skull. The local wildlife must have found it unappetizing. She couldn’t blame them - the thing was disgusting. She had almost been that thing. Ilana shuddered, and pointedly ignoring the four empty eye sockets, crawled into the dark cockpit. 

God, the Muculox had pretty much killed her and she’d lived. The hollowed eyes drew her in, like wells, cool and dark and bottomless. The Mutraddi had killed people on Earth, because she was there. But who was still alive on Galaluna? Her father? Hobbes? Anyone? With a furious motion she swept snow off the command console, turned to the Muculox corpse, and with a brief burst of laser-guided rage, blew it up.

The ship began to hum and vibrate, feebly, but surely. Ilana’s knees went weak and she dropped into the chair, brushing the rest of the mud off the console. The console lit up, scripts filling the screens, numbers and maps and comms – 

A Galalunan textbook sprang to mind: Muculoxic ships organically interface with their environments, and ‘hibernate’ rather than power down. The ship was alive. The ship’s last entered coordinates were Galaluna. The ship, without its engines, was useless. 

But, she realized with a sudden thrill, the comm was not. Ilana reached her hands to her neck and, with a soft pop, took her helmet off.

Half an hour later, the Corus armor began beeping frantically and Octus’ voice came fuzzy through the comm.

“Ilana, the space rift opened. It landed downtown, meet us there as fast as you can!” 

“I’ll be right there, Octus,” she said, shoving her helmet back on and leaping out of the cockpit. She took off into the charcoal-grey sky and sped northward towards Sherman, a small, warm hope stealing into her breast. It had nothing to do with opening space rifts.

/////////

Ilana alighted gracefully into the plaza in front of Sherman City Hall.

The plaza was full of bright urban lights and completely devoid of people. There was a massive splatter of rubble that used to be the front entrance of the Andrews Tower and a deep, gash-like furrow in the street, exposing pipes and utility lines. Sherman City Hall was riddled with hundreds of holes, each hole marked by a small black scorch mark. Lance must’ve tried to shoot it, but… it had been moving too fast… She opened her comm.

“Octus? …Lance? I’m here, where are you?”

A few seconds of silence, and - Lance slammed to the street in front of her, crunching the asphalt under his Manus armor, gold light sliding off the purple armor. Even over the comm, Ilana could hear him breathing heavily. She thought about saying something, really quick, feeling uncomfortably warm underneath her armor -

“It’s in the metro tunnel… or the sewers… we need to kill the fucker,” he spluttered bluntly, and dove down the semi-exploded metro station staircase on the corner of the street. Ilana sprinted and then flew after him, down into the darkened metro station. She could deal with her anger later.

“What kind of creature is it?!” she yelled, as they skimmed the walls of pitch-black metro tunnels. 

“It’s an Apessian scorpion… I’ve seen big ones tear through Manus armors. And they’re venomous. Octus and I can deal with it,” he said shortly, feet dropping to a station platform in a huge, vaulted metro cavern. Ilana opened her mouth to complain as she scanned the cavern, full of rubble like the plaza, and saw Octus –

CRACK. The scorpion smacked Octus into the wall with a vicious slap of its claw and shrieked, jabbing at the wall with both claws as Octus dodged it. Each jab gouged a new hole into the wall, sending bursts of concrete onto the station platforms. 

Ilana felt an inescapable sense of revulsion – its slightly furred blackish carapace was translucent under the pale lights, and its tail almost pulsed with tension and power – and its jaws, hideous, slavering, dripping jaws full of strange teeth, and tiny gleaming eyes and segmented body and all those creeping, jerking legs – she could almost feel those little legs crawling up her skin, light, sharp, sticking – ugh.

Lance ejected a sword from his armory, swung it, and leapt forward, kicking back a plume of smoke; the sword flashed high over his head and the scorpion tail shot into him, slapping him down and sending the sword skittering and clattering against the metro rails. The scorpion shrieked again and scuttled around to Ilana – she shot it with a Corus beam; it barely seared the carapace, and its tail darted and missed as she jumped away –

“Out of the way!” Lance shouted, as a Cronus chain popped out of his armory. He threw the chain at the tail, making his mark; the chain wrapped around the tail once, twice, three times – and the scorpion cut the chain in two with an irate snap of its claw. Octus zapped it with an energy beam. It squealed angrily, giving off a strong burnt smell, and grabbed Octus in its claw, trying to stab him with its tail but Octus merely dematerialized – it struck Octus’ Eye and he sparked; Lance fired a gauntlet rocket into the scorpion’s face and Octus thudded to the ground, fizzling.

“That was a terrible idea,” he said faintly.

“Initiate Ti – !!“ Lane began.

“Terminate,” Ilana cut in, skating to Octus and pulling him out of the scorpion’s reach. Lance grunted irately and fired another rocket. The scorpion quailed against the explosive hit and screamed menacingly, a shrill, piercing sound that stung their ears. 

“Initiate Tita – “

“Terminate! Terminate! We can’t do it here, we’d cave the metro station and there are people over us!” Ilana cried, as the scorpion shivered dust off its back, its tail curling backwards.

“Do you have a better idea? It’s going to kill us!” Lance yelled back, diving towards the sword as the scorpion turned and snapped at him. It was too fast for the three of them and their weapons weren’t enough. Ilana stared at it, her mind blank, her heart pumping wildly. It was low to the floor, sitting on its eight jointed legs, nasty, revolting creature – and reared up slightly, showing a fleshy yellowish underbelly – 

Ilana tore across the platforms, over the tracks, to Lance, as the scorpion opened its claws. She wrenched the sword from his hand, jumped, and back-flipped off the Manus armor’s chest, sending Lance crashing into the wall behind as the scorpion thrust forward with both of its claws – and it pinned Lance to the wall, one claw on his outstretched arm, the other across his waist – its tail coiled back, ready to strike –

And Ilana had the sword.


	5. um?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> lol i updated

Lance swore and cursed unintelligibly under his breath, fighting to pry the claw around the armor’s waist off with his free hand. The scorpion didn’t budge and there was a loud metallic crack as the armor dented under the strength of its grip. The scorpion bristled with combative energy, tail taut and dripping with venom.

Ilana had the sword. It was almost as tall as the Corus armor and so she held it in both hands, struggling to keep it steady – waiting for the right moment –

“Octus, wait,” she commanded, as Octus raised his hands to electrocute the scorpion.

She heard Lance fall silent, panting heavily, as he slowly removed his hand from the scorpion’s claw, the Manus face impassive against the scorpion. He was going to be mad at her later, for sure… if it worked.

The scorpion tail shot forward and Lance swore again, loudly, catching it with his free hand and stopping the barb a foot away from his face. The scorpion screeched and tried to pull its tail back, Lance and the armor straining to hold on, to stay in one piece –

A surge of energy shot through Ilana and the Corus armor, a knot of power untangling from the energy core in her chest and coursing to the sword, which suddenly felt weightless. Its circuitry began to glow with a pale golden light and she took her chance – she leapt high into the air, swung the sword over her head, and with a two-handed slice, cut straight through the scorpion’s tail. It released like a snapped rubber band, recoiling backwards, yellow venom splurting from the cut. Ilana landed heavily between Lance and the scorpion, several feet away from its repulsive face, and without pausing to think she ducked low and used both hands to drive the sword straight into the bottom of the scorpion’s head, right into the soft, fleshy crevice between its armored plates. For added measure, she heaved all her weight onto the sword, pushing it deeper and slicing it across, so that a huge gaping cut opened in the scorpion’s neck and a viscous mass of whitish innards and fluid spilled out, covering her in guts.

The scorpion shrieked, an ear splitting cry that cut through them like a shard of glass, and shuddered convulsively. The Manus armor dropped to the floor as it opened its claws and, with a shrill groan, sank towards the floor of the subway station, spilling innards as its legs weakened. The floor was slick with scorpion viscera and Ilana could only look up as the scorpion threatened to drop its dead weight on her… as it collapsed with a squelchy crash, she felt a hard yank and she was out from underneath the corpse.

“Thanks… Octus…” she panted, standing up as he began trying to scrub her clean of scorpion guts; they smelled, in a over-sweet, sickly way, like sewage and bad meat.

“I didn’t know princesses were taught how to slay scorpions,” he said admiringly, flicking a jelly-like gob of something off her shoulder.

“Top of the class,” she said breathlessly, craning her neck towards the scorpion. The thing was still sort of twitching horribly and a bubble popped in the foul-smelling slop of guts. She felt slightly ill, looking at her handiwork… and a small, fierce sense of satisfaction.

There were several thudding footsteps as Lance staggered over in the Manus armor, one hand tentatively exploring the dent. He stopped in front of Ilana and Octus, the purple armored face frozen in its blank scowl, but Ilana could imagine his expression.

“You…” he began angrily, leaning over, flinging a pointed finger into her face, apparently right on the cusp of some tirade; he paused and tried again: “you – you… !”

“Lance, is there something you want to say?” Octus asked, with a sardonic note.

“Whatever. Forget it,” Lance huffed, and stomped towards the scorpion. He knelt down and stuck both arms into the scorpion’s corpse, fishing around, and pulled out the sword. Ilana watched him as he swung the sword, slinging slime off the point, and then collapsed it into his armory. He turned to look at them, expectantly, as though waiting for them to push back, to argue.

“Let’s just go home already,” Lance muttered, after a long silence.

“Okay,” she said, turning off her armor with a flash of light. Octus flickered into his Newton form and gave her a gentle pat on the head. They started off towards the tunnel and there was a similar flash of light behind them from Lance.

“So… hot chocolate when we get home?” she said, looking up at Octus.

“With _marshmallows_ ,” he said, “they – “

Lance had a hand on either of their collars, halting them in their tracks.

“Look up,” he said, still holding on firmly. They all looked up. A glob of scorpion poison was dripping from the ceiling high above them. The tail had slung it across the subway station when Ilana cut it in two. Lance removed his hand from Ilana’s collar and looked at Octus.

“Can you catch a sample?”

“Of course,” said Octus, and his hand morphed into a shallow round dish. They waited in the quiet as Octus collected three, four, five drops of the scorpion venom and studied it carefully, his eyes shining with concentration.

“It’s an acidic neurotoxin,” he said; “don’t let any of it fall on you.”

They side-eyed the puddled forming by their feet, scooted around it, and stole their way into the dark for home.

////

“They killed it. She killed it. We’re doomed.”

“She got lucky.”

“No wonder he hasn’t been able to kill her. She’s lethal.”

“She got _lucky_.”

“No one ‘gets lucky’ killing an Apessian scorpion! Modula sent us on a suicide mission!”

“If Lance couldn’t do it by himself – “

“But that’s exactly what I mean – “

“Both of you shut up!”

They both fell silent, their unfinished sentences rising into the air. The speaker, a tall, pointed young man with pale blonde hair, glared at his companions, a stocky red-headed man and a freckled woman with a hawkish look, both roughly his same age. They were all wedged into a niche down the dark subway tunnel; their dirty, worn-out Galalunan uniforms a dull, bitter red under the subway tunnel lights. They could see the lifeless scorpion several dozen yards away, its eyes gleaming blankly at them. Lance, the princess, and the robot had gone down the opposite tunnel, away from them, and they had seen the whole thing.

“I’m just saying - ” said the redhead, sniffling; and he was abruptly cut off as the blond soldier making a sudden movement forward, pinning him to the wall with a forearm to the neck.

“Listen, Arthur, you sniveling little shit,” he growled, as Arthur squeaked; “keep saying that and I’ll kill you myself. Get it?”

“Baron! Stop!” hissed the woman, and a muscle jumped in Baron’s jaw.

“Anyone can take out a Mutraddi megabeast with a robot and armor,” he said, “but they’ve never had to play at our level. So shut your mouth before I shut it for you.”

“ _Baron_!” said the woman again, louder.

Arthur nodded as best he could, glasses slightly askew on his round face.

Baron removed his arm and Arthur slumped down the wall, gasping for air. Baron sneered at him dismissively, like he was something Baron had found stuck to the bottom of his boot.

“Okay, Corinthia… Arthur. We need a plan,” he said to his companions, Corinthia’s serious face shadowy in the dark. He leaned out of the niche, looking up and down the tunnel, towards the scorpion and the subway station, where poison was still dribbling into puddles on the floor.

Only a week ago, he had been in a precarious spot, watching his fellow soldiers in Modula’s prison camps slowly being whittled down, tortured, executed, or fed alive to Mutraddi megabeasts for the benefit of a terrified Galalunan public. And now he was on Earth, hunting down the riffraff. It was quite a predicament, for sure, but he was determined to succeed. Even if his companions weren’t. Baron picked at his cuffs, carefully removing a thread and letting it flutter to the floor.

“Get up, you useless sack of fou fou,” he snapped to Arthur, who was still sitting on the floor, and Corinthia straightened to attention.

“Here’s what we’re going to do…”

/////

“Ew, I still smell like that thing,” said Ilana, sniffing her arm and pulling away with a scrunched, pained expression.

“At least the thing didn’t eat you,” said Octus, who was puttering around the kitchen as Dad. Ilana was sitting at the kitchen table, freshly showered, feeling as though she had washed the entire day away. The miserable bit of the afternoon had floated down a river, a leaf drawn out of sight by the current, and she was still drifting on her success, nasty-smelling though it was. She had one hand wrapped around a mug of hot chocolate, steam wafting slowly into the kitchen air, curling and uncurling on itself. Lance was somewhere, doing something. He hadn’t said anything on the way home and then disappeared into the garage, clutching a bag of baby carrots to his chest like they were being outlawed.

“True. I’d rather smell like it than be digested by it.”

Octus let that one pass without comment and studiously scrubbed a pot clean. Ilana looked into her mug and swirled it around, watching the marshmallows bounce against the curve of the ceramic. She looked at the garage door, where the mechanical clinks and clanks of car-fixing had fallen silent several minutes ago, and tucked her hands between her knees. The afternoon had floated back, apparently, and her mood felt tainted, like someone had taken a black marker and scribbled all over her joy. She sighed.

“What did you do to each other _this_ time?”

“Hm …?”

She swiveled her head. Octus was drying his hands, fixing her with a critical look.

“Oh. Haha. Nothing, it’s fine, he was just being his usual, cheerful self today,” Ilana babbled hastily, arranging her face into a crooked smile.

“I might be a robot, but I can read your facial expressions quite well, and I _know_ that’s fake,” he said sternly, and her shoulders drooped. Bleh. There was nothing in her mug that could help her now.

“I went to go get him after school, and we sort of… fought… and I kind of… sort of… hit him in the face,” she mumbled, feeling a warm flush come into her cheeks.

“Why did you do that??”

Ilana opened her mouth, shrugged into her shoulder, and looked for the words she wanted to say on the ceiling. They were there, quite clearly, quite plainly; the words a princess in exile never wanted to hear; the words that dug in and stung like splinters under the skin, hard to remove without breaking yourself in the process. Because he hit her in the weak spot. Because she was always defending. Always retreating. Never moving forward; always moving back, further back, away from the problem. But the problem – the ‘ _problem_!’, she thought scathingly; it was a war! A coup! Her people were dying! It wasn’t a problem; it was genocide – the problem moved relentlessly forward, a flood of Mutraddi and countless nightmares rising at her feet

Ilana thought of the Muculox ship in the swamp, and what she had done with it. Maybe, in part, she had redeemed herself; she had taken a step forward.

“Because I was being a jerk,” blurted Lance, as he swung the door to the garage open, wiping engine grease off his hands with a grimy grey towel. His face flushed and he froze under their gaze.

“And – um. You know. Sorry. About, um, that. I didn’t mean it,” he said, not meeting their eyes; muscles tensed, head down, hands shoved tightly into his pockets. His entire body, stuck fast in the gap between his words and their silence, spoke of nervousness. But there was no insincerity in his voice. Shame, Ilana realized, was an unfamiliar emotion for him. She glared at him, daring him to lift his eyes.

“Would Animal Friends help right now?” Octus offered, moving to switch on the TV, and both Lance and Ilana whipped their heads around – “NO!” they both said at once, and his hand slowed sheepishly.

“Pretend I never said anything,” he muttered, and he started piling dishes into the cabinet with a pointed expression.

“You’re a real piece of work sometimes, Lance,” said Ilana, crossing her arms, and making a point to let her gaze cut to Lance’s feet and then back up to his face, like she was sizing him up. It was a princess thing, and she was good at it.

“Ilana, I’m sorry,” he said again, and she sighed and rolled her eyes and thought that maybe she’d let him look her in the face again.

“Fine,” she said, uncrossing her arms; “I accept your apology. Have some hot chocolate.”

“I don’t want any hot choc – ”

“ _Drink it_ ,” hissed Octus, shoving a mug into his hands, and Lance took a quiet, hasty sip.

“Now will you two get along? I am the robot, not the babysitter,” Octus said, and Ilana rolled her eyes, resting her head against her fist on the counter. Lance pulled out the chair across from Ilana, the wooden legs scraping loudly against the tile floor, and dropped into it with a flump, staring dully at the cup of hot chocolate.

“I’ll try,” he murmured.

////

And, in a large, graceful hovership several hundred miles away and several dozen miles in the air, Solomon Kane sat in his command chair, hands steepled to his nose as he watched the message play across a huge screen. One of the G3 communications men had sent it along, said they’d intercepted it on a Galalunan frequency, so naturally they’d picked it up - Solomon paused the video, slid his fingers across the touch screen, and played it again: Ilana’s bright, warm face, set against some half-ruined, mossy-looking cockpit somewhere, wearing a look of both exhaustion and hope as she spoke:

_This message is for the people of Galaluna, who are still struggling under the tyranny and bloodshed of General Modula’s regime. I just want you all to know that I’m alive and safe, and Modula has failed in all of his attempts to assassinate me. I think of you every day - of your smiles, your songs, your compassion and your courage. You give me the strength to keep fighting. I don’t know when I’ll come home, but I hope it’s soon, and together we can take our home back._

“Spoken like a true princess. Born fighter, that girl,” Solomon muttered. The message was already hurtling through space towards Galaluna, where her people would see it, and so would General Modula. Solomon pinched his fingers down the touch pad and the message closes with a wink of light.

“But naïve,” he said, into the dim light of the command room. “Too naïve.”

Whatever she started, it was too late to stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk if i'll get back to this. maybe someday. i still love symbionic titan and i still have a lot of ideas for this, so we'll see!


End file.
